A Darkling Plain
by adelheid23
Summary: AU. Detention with him is a bitter dance on a winter evening. bdsm.
1. Chapter 1

_And we are here as on a darkling plain_

_Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,_

_Where ignorant armies clash by night._

Dover Beach, Matthew Arnold.

* * *

The castle shrieks in winter, but he rather likes the sound. The wind punishes anyone who steps in or steps out. You turn a corner in an empty corridor and an icy draught catches your heart. You open a window and you turn into stone.

* * *

She has answered out of turn in class again, but she is punctual for her detention. Resolute and resigned at the same time, Hermione Granger steps into his study and her eyes are slightly darkened from sleeplessness. This is the last winter she will spend at Hogwarts and he can sense her impatience, the impatience of all seven years who are so close to freedom, they can taste it.

She gingerly places her schoolbag on a chair by the door.

"Come sit, Miss Granger."

For the first time, the wakeful sleep seems to dissipate. Hermione is focused. Professor Snape rarely asks her to sit down. As a rule, he points to a door behind his desk, the one that opens into his private storage. There, she sorts and stacks ingredients, cleans and repeats.

It is no secret he gives her detentions on purpose. Not out of spite, although she is quite sure he holds her in contempt, but because she is the only one who can get it right, who can reinstate order into his chaos.

"Must I tell you twice?" he demands in the familiar, sententious voice. He is grading assignments at his desk. To a casual observer, he is barely looking at her, but he watches each movement from behind a screen of nonchalance. He senses her reluctance and marks his displeasure by furrowing his eyebrows.

Hermione obeys at last and sits opposite him, her eyes travelling to the papers in front of him.

"Here," he says and pushes the stack towards her. "You will find a quill to your right. Dip it into red ink and commence."

Hermione is startled, but not entirely surprised. He has always taken advantage of her skills during detentions, but never quite to this degree. She can't really believe he would entrust her with something of this nature. This isn't his private order, this is a public affair. But she shakily grabs the quill that is standing idly on the edge of the desk and holds it in her fingers until its weight becomes non-distinct.

"Well?"

She has to dip her quill into his pot of ink. The gesture feels somewhat sacrilegious. She can't remember if she has ever shared ink with anyone. She is not generous with such things, Ron and Harry should know.

But Hermione's face does not betray her inner suspension. The formality of the settings returns with expediency as her eyes fall on a third-year essay about the properties of Dittany. She has already spotted a colossal mistake in the very first sentence. The student has written that Dittany cures injured skin, which is absolutely false; Dittany will only make skin grow over a wound, but it does not eliminate or sanitize the damaged tissue. The quill scratches the paper sharply as she begins to write diligently.

He sees her nimble fingers gripping the quill, making it glide in circles, but never letting it slack. She writes furiously, contentedly, quietly. Her mind is spilling out on the page in rapid successions of names and numbers and measurements. She is detached from the scenery now and he recognizes the aloofness that carries her through any intellectual endeavour. Her face is tightly wound. And then, unexpectedly, it loosens.

She laughs. "Oh, Merlin!"

The laughter is swallowed into the winter evening, but its aftermath is painful.

She has forgotten where she is. Otherwise, she would have never let this outburst escape her lips. She looks up, mortified. The disruption is a one-time occurrence. She has never so much as smiled during a detention.

Professor Snape simply stares at her, his expression neither approving, nor taxing.

"What is the source of your amusement, Miss Granger?"

"I am – sorry, Professor. I found an absurd mistake in one of the essays. I apologize -"

"Do share." His voice implies that he would not care to hear, but that she ought to tell him anyway.

She hesitates. Her throat has dried up.

"Well, someone made a confusion between a Bezoar and a…bison."

One corner of his mouth seems to twitch and go up an inch. She has seen him smirk before. Maliciously or self-satisfactorily. She cannot faithfully categorize this one.

"A Gryffindor, no doubt."

Hermione looks down at the paper and winces. It is indeed a fellow Gryffindor.

"It makes you wonder…" he starts in a melodious climb that he would usually take when he explained a matter too subtle for his pupils. He does not go on with his thought and she waits patiently, but he simply returns to his work.

Hermione does the same.

The dead silence that reigns over the dungeons is usually unpleasant, but it never seems to reach Professor Snape's study, even when they are both perfectly quiet. She has never realized this so fully until tonight.

* * *

Soon, the cold is seeping into her cramped fingers and she has to wrestle with herself to keep writing. She does not wish to deprive the fourth-year Hufflepuff of the much needed explanation on the _correct_ counter-effects of the Chelidonium Miniscula Potion. She takes it as her moral duty. But she shivers and the shiver seems to travel into the ink pot which rattles when she dips the quill in.

Professor Snape hums disapprovingly.

He gets up rather suddenly, but not too suddenly, as all his movements seem half-delayed. He walks to the other end of the room where an empty hearth sleeps in the shadows.

With one flick of his wand a roaring fire breaks through the grey cold.

Hermione does not dare look towards the fire. She should thank him, or mutter some kind of acknowledgement, but she is trapped in her polite, but austere formalism.

She does not hear him walk back to the desk. He seems to be contemplating the fire, but again, she cannot see. She can only make suppositions which distract her from her task.

She does not know why she is always so obedient, so useful, so _goddamned_ perfect in his presence. Every detention is the same. She never errs. Whatever task he sets her to, she will perform with taste and virtuosity. She is never too keen, for that would be a fault. She shows just the right amount of free will, and just the right amount of awareness that this time is not hers to spend freely. She does not _enjoy_ these moments, but she does not hate them. And tonight, well, tonight is a bit different. It's not that he has never given her something interesting to delve into. In fact, grading assignments can become monotonous after you have mentally filed all the possible faulty combinations a student may come up with. But it feels like a different _class_ of work, because it breaks their silent and begrudging partnership where she will work for him and solely him. She is working for the school now.

In the scheme of things, the explanation for her behavior is simple. She craves his approval because she will never have it and therefore, is committed to these detentions on the strength that they matter even more than the courses. But she is now months away from leaving Hogwarts and possibly never returning. Why she would still want to prove something is beyond her. She used to think she had overcome this _phase_ in her fifth year, that she had accepted he would never be pleased, but it seems some habits hold you in their sway even after you have forgotten their purpose.

Hermione is absorbed by the two different planes; the Potion and the Master. She does not sense or see the figure behind her.

He places one hand on the back of her chair.

She hears his rumbling voice falling down her shoulders like water that drags you down, but never extinguishes a fire.

"Warm, Miss Granger?"

Hermione feels her toes curling into her plain black shoes, scratching at the leathery insides. The question is a second disruption. She grapples with it, but she cannot place it into a pattern. It should feel quaint, like the many questions he has asked her before, but she is broken up quite unexpectedly by the nature of the inquiry. She doesn't know why. If she turned right now to look at him, he would appear just as placid and humorless as before.

She does not have to turn. He moves back into his seat in the same half-delayed fashion. When he is seated, she pushes a stack of papers away and pretends to reach for the pot of ink. She catches his features. His eyes cast her an indifferent glance, as if to say "the fire is chiefly for me, but make use of it as you will".

She wonders if he even got up in the first place, or if that was a figment of her imagination. But now he is pulling back his sleeves and rubbing his wrists. She realizes, stupidly, that she also feels a dull pain in her hands from writing so mercilessly, but has, until this moment, ignored it completely. She puts down her quill tentatively, and then, she also pulls back her sleeves.

Severus watches her as she moves her fingers over her skin, twisting and turning, making the bones crack emptily. She is a mirror of his actions, only hers are imbued with the certainty that she will escape reflection.

When he stops, she stops too. They stare at each other in a common-place fashion, he with guarded condescension, she with cold benevolence.

"It makes you wonder," he starts again, the thought he had never finished, "why you belong there."

He expects her to immediately comprehend his meaning and she does, for their dialogue is so sparse that his previous remark about Gryffindors sticks out like a rusty nail.

She looks down at the essay she has covered in red and says matter-of-factly, as if she were telling a casual acquaintance:

"I don't suppose I belong anywhere."

The third disruption which settles matters straight; this detention is like no other.

She fears she has irretrievably tainted these moments where she is simply a student and he is just another cruel teacher. But he goaded her, he caused the disruption. Her reply, consequently, does not belong to this realm and is duly ignored by Professor Snape. Perhaps he realizes it was his fault.

"You may leave now. Don't be late for curfew, Miss Granger."

Being Head Girl means she can eschew curfew. He knows this. But she puts down the quill in the exact same position she had found it and rises precariously.

His eyes catch the movement of her figure emerging from heavy waters.

She walks blindly to her schoolbag and grabs the knob on the door.

"Tomorrow night, same time," he instructs.

She does not remember nodding, but she is sure of her acquiescence because her whole body protests when she is wrenched from the warmth of the study into the glacial corridor.

It is only when she is already climbing towards the Gryffindor tower that she realizes her detention does not extend for another night. But he has the power to do so, preemptively.

She suspects tomorrow in class he will be particularly vicious.

* * *

"Tell me, Miss Granger, does critical thought ever inform the pedantic information which you insist on delivering so coarsely?"

Hermione winces. She has sought books that are not found on his recommended list. He is furious.

"Or are you incapable of separating the notions of theory and claim?"

"I was not claiming –"

"No, you were postulating from sources which are not credible and, what is more, ridiculous. Twenty points from Gryffindor. Another ten for insubordination."

She remains suspended in her anger and acceptance. The toes curl inside her plain black shoes.

"And since you have shared those inane books with Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley, thus contaminating the studying environment, you will see me in detention."

Redundant statement, really. He had already told her, the night before. He had told her she would come again. She had been right.

Hermione dips the quill into her ink pot and thinks about dipping it in his.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: If you've read any of my other stories, you know this will get dark and perverse pretty soon. A reviewer (**MomentoMori2**) has translated the first chapter into Russian (thanks!) and the link to it is on my profile, should you be curious. Thanks also to the anonymous **Guest** for their review. Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys this chapter! Let me know.

* * *

_Bow, stubborn knees and, heart with strings of steel,_

_Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe!_

_All may be well._

Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 3, William Shakespeare.

* * *

The castle howls its own undoing. The snow is black tonight, a blackness which has no concern that it is, to all eyes, white. He grips the frozen pane for a moment, before slamming it shut.

* * *

Tonight's detention is a repetition of the night before, but the steps are in a disarray. She cannot seem to clasp her winter robes across her chest, her schoolbag is missing and she is on the verge of running late. Hermione knows this would be unpardonable. She has never been late. Punctuality is what he values most. She has agreed to play this charade for a few months longer; she cannot fail now.

So she runs through the corridors, gathering steam in her mouth, robes billowing in her wake like a cloud of smoke.

She reaches his study in the nick of time, or so she believes.

"Enter."

A ghostly white flume emerges from her mouth as she steps through the door.

Professor Snape is not at his desk. He is standing by the fireplace, which he is already kindling.

His posture is, as always, cut from marble, his head bent forward in artful stillness. One hand grips the mantelpiece.

Hermione tries to suppress her panting, hide the evidence of her rush as she deposits her schoolbag on the chair by the door.

"You're out of breath, Miss Granger."

His voice is trivial, melodious, but without caprice. And that is how she knows he is _quite_ displeased with her. In class, he may savage her with words, but his tone is always too present, too engaged to be his. It's a strange paradox she has come to understand; the softer his voice, the more distant the music in his words, the more dangerous he actually becomes.

"I apologize, Sir."

"Did you run all the way here?" he asks, his tone adrift and unmoored.

_Oh, God. He is angry. _

"I walked fast." The words tumble out of her mouth inertly, and she knows she's made a mistake.

"I see."

She should have told him the truth, but now it's too late.

"You thought you would be late," he continues smoothly. "Well, you _are_."

He has not moved from the fireplace and in fact, has not spared her a glance.

_Of course. He was expecting me to arrive before he kindled the fire._

"I apologize, Sir. I have no excuse."

She believes it is best to simply not come up with any reason for her tardiness. A slip in perfection is unforgivable, but better to acknowledge it as a slip and try harder next time.

She realizes with chagrin she has inadvertently caused the first disruption. Will he be gentler, perhaps, knowing it is her first time being late? Can a transgression be innocent?

"Correct."

He takes out his wand from his doublet and the chair in front of his desk disappears before her eyes.

"As punishment, this evening, you shall grade the assignments standing up."

Hermione blinks, believing she has misunderstood. But the chair is indubitably gone and he makes no motion to bring it back. Her eyes fall to the floor. Could she have heard wrong? Reality replies arrogantly: _No. You heard him right._

Six months and she will leave Hogwarts behind for good. It is not worth playing his game any longer. It is not worth letting him subject her to more humiliation. At the same time, it is not worth stopping. She has reached this far into their strangled enmity.

A perverse desire to _know_ – know how far his hatred could run – makes her want to continue. Does he really hold her in such high contempt? Or is she the only one who allows herself to be held like this?

"Proceed," he beckons sedately, staring into the flames. He does not seem to _doubt_ that she will do as told. She has fed him this illusion for so many years now.

She cannot deny it. She _is_ curious. Ever since the previous evening, she has been counting disruptions. Something in the pattern is changing. He must know she is going to leave soon, and he has made up his mind to inflict as much abasement as possible.

The foreknowledge soothes her, strangely.

She approaches the empty spot where her chair used to be. The desk is arranged neatly in two stacks of parchments, two quills, one red inkpot.

Hermione bites her lip. She must dip her quill into his pot again. He has unscrewed the cap and two red drops hang on the edge of the rim.

Foolishly, she reaches out with her fingers and wipes them away. She doesn't want him to see the mess. She wipes her hand inside her robes, but two fingers remain sticky red.

He is still standing by the fireplace, but one shoulder has been turned towards her.

"Do not make me repeat myself, Miss Granger."

Hermione nods fervently, grabs the quill, dips it clumsily into his pot and snatches one of the assignments from her stack. She has to bend down to actually see the writing. She has grown several inches over the summer and the desk only reaches below her navel.

She is in the midst of finding a good position in which to read, when, sharply comes his definitive,

"No."

She turns halfway towards him with a questioning look in her eye.

"You shall not bend. You shall stand straight."

Hermione stares at him for a moment longer. He lifts one eyebrow placidly. His upper lip is curled in umbrage, but it is tinged with dark humour.

"Sir?"

"I will not allow bad posture in my presence," he says in the trivial manner of a teacher, although his dark eyes speak of something else entirely. _You do not bend. __**I**__ bend you._

Hermione swallows a warm block of air down her throat. The room has grown unbearably hot. She is wearing her heavy winter robes which she has not discarded. She looks down at the parchment and, with trembling fingers, grips the quill again.

She stands straight, as straight as her muscles will allow it. She cannot see anything on the page. Illegible scribbles, mystical symbols. The letters glow in a blur and disappear from sight. She clenches her toes inside her plain black shoes.

Hermione does not move. She continues to stare at the parchment, hoping to pry at least a sentence, at least a word. No luck. She grinds her teeth and narrows her eyes. Her head begins to pound. Beads of sweat are trailing down her back. Her forehead is wet.

And yet, she does not move.

The freezing dungeons are smothered in silence, but inside his warm room, her mind screams and his fingers drum on the mantelpiece. A din so loud that her ears are burning.

A moment longer, and she will collapse.

She reaches out tentatively with one hand to unclasp her winter robes.

"Take care, Miss Granger. You are not to move from the desk until you are done grading."

_No. _

Hermione has already pulled the string and untied three buttons.

She contemplates her next course of action. She cannot possibly remove herself from the desk to place her robes on the chair. But simply leaving them on is too dreadful a torture to bear.

She bites her lip and lets them fall to the floor. They glide down her body in a gentle stream, resting shortly on her skirt before pooling down at her feet. She feels so liberated by the movement that she lets out a happy sigh.

He has stopped drumming his fingers on the mantelpiece.

Hermione chances a look in his direction, trying to gauge his reaction. He stares at the fallen robes like a mortician at a corpse. Clinical Interest. Indifference. Fascination.

"Proceed."

Hermione feels her muscles relax. Her white blouse sticks to her back with sweat, but she can finally breathe.

Yet still, she cannot make out the words on the page. She has got rid of one obstacle, only to be more eagerly confronted with a second. At this rate, she will never finish, never even start.

And he will not aid her in any way.

_I took off the robes and he did not mind...too much. What if I - _

The idea is perhaps a little ludicrous. But she would not be overriding any of his rules by applying it.

So, carefully, without letting go of the quill, making sure her back is still perfectly straight, she lowers herself to the floor. Her knees bend gently, almost imperceptibly, the effort not to break her composure Sisyphean.

She tastes salty sweat on her lips.

She grips the desk with her fingers as her knees touch the floor. She is kneeling on her robes, her feet dangling out at uneven angles. She could not keep her back straight without spreading her legs. Her thigh are, therefore, open. A small compromise. Cold air bites at the flesh inside.

The sounds change subtly.

He releases a shallow breath and the room suddenly vibrates. She is barely aware of it, barely sure she has heard it. She does not _dare_ to look at him. She beings to read the assignment.

_Perfection. Perfection. I crave perfection_, is the old song that plays in her head. A self-destructive song that will no doubt haunt her beyond Hogwarts and make her life miserable. But he is an enabler. And though she should know better, she accepts the drug he offers her unwittingly.

_Maybe he knows exactly what he is doing._

He stands in front of the flames, casting shadows across her figure. He is moving towards her.

Hermione squirms, nails digging into her quill. She has made her own bed, now she must lie in it. He is going to punish her, he will not accept this compromise, he will make her pay -

"_Straighter_."

Though her legs are spread out, she can _feel_ the imprint of his foot. It's only the tip of his shoe, standing in the empty space between her thighs. He is not touching her. His body is remote. But the tip of his shoe is positioned at the entrance. Warm air falls from her skin on the leather.

"Straighter," he repeats.

Hermione bites her lip hard and arches her back as far as she possibly can. Her muscles ache, but she pulls them further.

He does not make another remark. He is letting her decide how good is good _enough_.

And then, his shoe disappears. He has walked around her and is sitting down at the desk, his mien perfectly calm. In fact, he looks downright bored.

He pulls the stack of papers towards him, dips his quill and bends his head in a way that suggests he ought not to be disturbed.

Hermione feels her body protesting in pain. Her back is stiff, her neck is sore, her muscles cramped. Her fingers twitch, her knees hurt. She feels little nails digging inside the soles of her feet.

But she does not flinch. There is a throbbing in the space left empty by his shoe.

She is only unconsciously disappointed that he remained unflappable and unstirred in the face of her struggle. But it is only a murmur in the deep recess of her mind.

She cannot guess or see, however, that he holds one hand in his lap, clenched tightly into a fist. So tight, that the veins bulge in a coarse, dark river. He fastens his grip, while his other hand writes.

* * *

At the end of an hour, she is spent. The intellectual pleasure she would derive from judging other people's work is a fading memory. It cannot offer sufficient relief. She has transcended _all_ means of relief. She has wasted her magic on keeping herself straight. She has utterly depleted her energy on not moving, but the absurdity, the sheer _futility_ of this endeavour is cast aside for future contemplation. She looks like a sinking ship, desperately trying to stay afloat. Her façade is crumbling, has been crumbling for minutes. Only a small whimper has escaped her lips in the span of this time, but he has recorded the sound with satisfaction.

"You may leave now. If you are late or out of breath again, you will _suffer_ the consequences."

His voice is laced with irony.

She looks into his eyes, and he looks back sardonically.

_I don't suppose I belong anywhere_, she had told him the night before.

She feels sick to her stomach. Of course she doesn't belong anywhere. She is ill. She wants to suffer the consequences again.


End file.
